


Andante

by emirozus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, FFxivWrite, Falling In Love, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Idiots in Love, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Pining, Pre-Relationship, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, months after september i will finish this, potential canon divergences here and there, rating will definitely go up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emirozus/pseuds/emirozus
Summary: I do not have feelings for the Warrior of Light, he wants to say. But the words catch in his throat.Or, Aymeric finds himself falling in love with the Warrior of Light.Chapter 7: NonagenarianHilda blows a raspberry and tugs the Warrior of Light towards her. “Keep your doom and gloom to yourself,” she snips. The crone cackles in response.The Warrior of Light gets a palm reading and learns a little bit about love.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	1. crux

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by day #1: crux for ffxivwrite2020 on tumblr. please leave thoughts & critique ♥

It all starts with a fleeting quirk of Lucia’s lips.

His First Commander is notoriously stern and impressively composed. _Lucia the Unrelenting_ , he has heard in the barracks. _Lucia the Stiff_ , in less kind places. He has long thought she has the better poker face of the two of them, particularly in public, and it is the startling lack of impassivity on Lucia’s face as he bids farewell to the Scions that makes him do a double-take.

His gaze catches on the tail of the Warrior’s customary braid as she leaves his office, her companions in tow. The flutter of her hair as she turns this way and that nets his attention, as always. He waits until everyone disappears behind his closing office door before addressing Lucia.

“Is aught amiss?” he asks, her face returning to its neutral state as she turns to face him, having positioned herself in front of his desk to await further orders.

“Pardon, ser?” she responds, but Aymeric knows her too well. Her cheek twitches and her eyes sparkle curiously as she holds his gaze.

“You had a peculiar expression,” he clarifies, although he suspects she knows exactly what he’s referencing.

Lucia opens her mouth to respond but hesitates, and Aymeric narrows his eyes. Lucia does not often withhold her opinion from him. She studies him as he studies her, and he is perplexed to see her lips curl in a light, friendly way.

“I’m not sure it’s my place, ser,” she chuckles.

He gives a permissive wave of his hand, listening.

She picks her words rather carefully; he can see the gears turning in her mind. “Well, you were quite effusive in your praise,” she says.

Aymeric’s brows furrow. He thinks back on what he had said and can’t quite recall himself saying anything particularly abnormal to the Scions. “When?”

Lucia gives him a look that seems to be asking him if he’s serious.

Aymeric holds his hands up, placating, letting out a small laugh. “Is it unwarranted? She is the Warrior of Light.”

“No, not unwarranted,” Lucia agrees. Her hands then plant on her hips, however, and a small part of Aymeric instinctually cowers at the combined force of her posture and her disbelieving look. “Are you not doing it on purpose, then?”

Aymeric suddenly feels as if he has lost the direction of the conversation. “Doing what, per se?”

Lucia’s playful disbelief begins to morph into something more like true confusion. “Well..."

The Lord Commander leans back in his seat and once again gestures for her to keep speaking.

Lucia’s gaze flicks away for a moment before returning to his own. “Is it not—“ she stammers a moment, so unlike her that Aymeric feels a slight hint of alarm start to stiffen his spine. She straightens, and with brows furrowed she says, “It quite seems like you fancy her, no?”

Aymeric’s mind stops right as the word _fancy_ leaves her mouth. Lucia keeps speaking. “One might say you are laying it on rather _thick_ ,” she jests with a small grin.

Another beat of silence. Lucia laughs a little nervously. “I thought Master Thancred’s eyebrows would rise right off his face at every new word you spoke.”

“I,” he starts. “Pardon?”

His voice is higher than he cares for. Lucia seems taken aback. There’s a flush slowly working its way up his neck, and Lucia just keeps staring.

“Ser,” Lucia returns to formality in the face of such awkwardness. “Pray forgive my presumption.”

Aymeric shakes his head, waving away her apology. “I do not—“ he begins, and stops.

 _I do not have feelings for the Warrior of Light,_ he wants to say. And the words catch in his throat as he is reminded of his deep admiration of her deeds, her character. She is generous and kind. She never hesitates to fight for the greater good. She is what the tales said and more. He can still recall the strange, dissociative experience he had upon meeting her for the first time, putting a face to all the stories— and now he sees her rather frequently, her presence now familiar to him and the rest of Ishgard.

 _We are_ _familiar._ He knows the way she looks after a battle, strands of her hair loose from her braid. Skin damp with exertion. She doesn’t relish warring but there is a glint in her eyes when a battle is satisfying. She’s quiet, reserved with her judgment, but he’s watched her lay a doting hand on Master Alphinaud’s shoulder in comfort, raise her steel against those who threaten her peace. He’s seen her fail to restrain laughter at one of the late Lord Haurchefant’s quips— the way her eyes scrunch when she’s pleased, the white of her teeth exposed from her curled lips.

He has cataloged such things in his memory with alarming detail, he realizes now, as these things rise to mind unbidden. He oft thinks after her when she is absent from a meeting. He knows there is a surge of pleasure when they meet unexpectedly.

He thinks she is beautiful. But not once has he ever considered...

“...It was not my intention,” he settles on, finally, after a terribly long bout of silence.

Lucia still seems a little unsettled, but she nods anyway and relaxes her posture. Once again, there is an awkward pause.

“Pray forgive me once more,” she says. Her brow is still wrinkled as she stares straight through him.

“Not necessary,” Aymeric responds distractedly. He cannot tear his mind from the train of thought Lucia has introduced. “I am not...”

A quick laugh snaps Aymeric out of his stupor. Lucia covers her grin with a hand. “Apologies. It is rare to see your words abandoning you.”

Aymeric smiles wryly, running a hand over his face. With an air of finality, he settles on, “I am not attempting to express my affections.”

“Your _affections_?” Lucia echoes, a teasing lilt in her voice. Before Aymeric can let his bumbling embarrass him again, his First Commander smiles at him. “Well, ‘tis easy to believe the rumors when you stutter and mumble so.”

He shoots her what he hopes is an unimpressed glare. The edge of Lucia’s grin softens in response.

“Nonetheless,” She reaches forward to grab a stack of completed reports. Lucia looks exceedingly satisfied, much like the coeurl who caught the cream. “Such a thorough expression of your admiration and gratitude to the Warrior of Light could be… _misinterpreted_ ,” she shoots him another grin. “Anything else for the evening?”

“No,” he sighs, feeling properly chided. “Have a good night, Lucia.”

The First Commander offers one last fairly smug grin before bowing her head and leaving his office.

The door closes behind her, leaving Aymeric feeling out of place in his own office. Out of habit, he picks up a nearby requisition form and his quill, eyes scanning over the contents. A thousand more swords to be forged, he reads. Scratches his signature at the bottom, albeit a little messier than usual. He shuffles the next paper in front. Three thousand yalms of cotton thread for bandages. He signs at the bottom and moves both papers to the other side of his desk.

Aymeric sets his quill down and leans back in his chair.

He wishes Estinien was here. He does not hesitate to tell the truth of the matter, nor does he resort to teasing. _You’re a bloody idiot, Borel,_ he can hear the dragoon say. _Quit your endless poetry before the girl thinks you’re trying to woo her_.

Aymeric wonders if she _does_ think that.

He can sense himself entering a spiral of thought, one that will get him nowhere. With a sigh, he stands and heads to the fire, filling the kettle and setting it above the flame. He needs another cup of tea and about a hundred more requisition forms to distract him.

* * *

Aymeric is so sufficiently distracted by the endless forms and well-sweetened tea that he does not leave the Congregation until several hours past the dinner bell. His eyes are sore, and a slow throb has begun in his head. He manages a nod to the saluting guard posted outside, and he begins his trek back to the Pillars. Times like this he is thankful for the biting Ishgardian cold; his grogginess evaporates with the harsh sting of the wind and keeps him alert on his walk home.

He climbs the stairs at Saint Valeroyant’s Forum slowly, eyes to the ground. The last few troubling reports he read are imprinted on the back of his eyelids. _A brandy_ , he thinks. _Just one before bed._

“Oh, Ser Aymeric.”

His neck snaps up at the familiar voice.

The Warrior of Light is coming down the stairs next to him. She’s bundled up in a thick, knitted scarf and her traveling cloak, the wisps of hair around her face whipping in the wind. Even in the darkness, he can see her cheeks reddened from the cold. She pulls the scarf down to smile at him and wave.

“Amalia,” he greets. He straightens, tries to appear more alert. “Apologies, I didn’t see you.”

“Long night?” she asks.

“No longer than usual.” Tonight, in particular, he feels a bit antsy under her gaze.

She steps closer, perhaps to hear him better over the wind. “You look tired,” her smile turns sympathetic. “You should get some rest.”

Something twists inside Aymeric at her unveiled concern. His lips quirk. “Oh, says the pot to the kettle? And where are _you_ headed to so late?” 

Her lips fight a grin. “Alphinaud wanted to head to the Rising Stones early. I’m meeting him by the aetheryte.”

“Safe travels,” he wishes her. “I’m sure you will appreciate the warmer clime.”

“Ugh,” she scoffs. “I could do without another night like this, that’s for sure. Desert blood and all that.”

The balmy weather of Ul’dah certainly did not compliment him, but he knows it suits her better. Her skin has lost the bronze of the desert sun it had when he first met her. She was warm and freckled, a stark contrast to the Coerthan paleness. His fist clenches; he wishes he could pinch himself to rid this train of thought.

Their small talk comes to a lull, absorbed as he is with wrestling his own mind, and Amalia shifts where she stands. Aymeric clears his throat. “Lucia suggested something to me earlier,” he says, and he very nearly slaps himself once the words leave his mouth.

“Oh?” Amalia cocks her head.

Aymeric almost blurts _never_ _mind_ , but her eyes are glowing in the torchlight, and she looks at him with true curiosity. Something in him becomes utterly desperate to… he doesn’t know, _make sure_.

He pushes some of his hair out of his eyes. “She thinks you may be uncomfortable.”

“What?” she frowns. She sounds genuinely confused. She comes down another step to stand next to him, and he looms over her small Hyur stature. “By what, exactly?”

 _My ‘effusive_ _praise,’_ he thinks. Instead, he scrambles to find some way to phrase it without saying something he’ll regret. Admiration and affections, Lucia had said to him. “Our expression of gratitude,” he settles on. _Our_ , he says, in some desperate attempt to not make it about himself.

Her eyes widen a bit, blinking slowly at him. A crisp wind blows past, and the knotted tail of her scarf brushes against the front of his coat. She buries her face into it once more, her nose rubbing against the fabric, and he waits with a fair amount of dread. This is when she confesses her unease.

She laughs. There— that familiar crinkle of her eyes, the white of her teeth.

“I’m not,” she smiles at him. The heavy pit in his stomach becomes a light, airy feeling at her words, her expression. “That’s just how you are, no?”

Her cheeks are round with her amusement, and he can’t resist his own sheepish grin. A hand comes to rub at his neck, unbidden. “...So it seems,” he concedes.

Amalia’s grin is mischievous, her voice teasing and familiar. Aymeric feels as if he hasn’t seen that from her in months. “It’s funny to think of her scolding you for that,” she snickers. “I’m always a little embarrassed. But it’s not your fault.”

The sweet cooling feeling of relief washes over him, but it sizzles into a pounding heat when she reaches out and grabs his forearm. She’s never touched him before, he knows for a fact right then and there, and her fingers squeeze gently around the thick layer of his coat.

“Don’t worry about it,” she soothes.

He hopes his alarm isn’t written all over his face, but the contact and his proximity have him a little speechless, and the soft slopes of her face are all he can see. His hand twitches, wanting to take hold of her own. He doesn’t know what he _should_ do, but he knows what his traitorous mind conjures— pulling her close against him. Feeling the cool skin of her cheek against his warm palm. His fingers brushing her hair aside. His thumb brushing under the curve of her jaw.

A distant clocktower bell saves him, as she gasps and releases him quickly.

“I have to go,” she rushes to say. “Alphinaud’s going to lecture me. Stay safe!”

“Thank you,” Aymeric chokes out. “You as well.” His tongue is wedged somewhere in his throat.

She takes a couple steps down before turning back to him, holding a stubborn piece of hair out of her face. “I’ll see you soon,” she waves with a sweet smile, and then she turns, rushing down the stairs and heading towards the aetheryte at a light jog. Her braid bounces against her back. He watches her until she disappears behind a stone corner.

He is flushed, body burning in the frigid night. He runs a hand over his face and curses, audibly, into the silence she left behind, unable to deny the frantic pace of his pulse and the way she forcibly occupies space in his mind. He hadn’t considered it before today, but in this moment he knows with utter certainty how he feels. Never has he imagined holding her. Never has he imagined how it’d feel to touch her.

Aymeric’s feet take him up the stairs, back to his manor, but his mind is left behind with her.


	2. sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lucia must have seen fit to send a meal for you with mine own,” Aymeric clears his throat. “Pray, do not feel obligated to—”
> 
> “I never turn down free food,” she interrupts. Eyes bright, a hint of teasing in there if he looks close. She looks a bit happier, her shoulders not quite so weighed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by day #2: sway for ffxivwrite2020. please leave thoughts & critique ♥

“Your injuries are healing well, Lord Commander,” the hospitalier captain tells him. “You really ought to have been abed, milord, but things are progressing as expected.”

“My thanks, Captain Abel,” Aymeric nods. The chirurgeon seems less than impressed with his skirting around the issue of his lack of bed rest, but he says nothing. He bandages Aymeric quickly but gently, yet Aymeric still winces; his wounds are sore from Abel’s careful prodding. He has done much recovering lately, be it from a Horde ambush, assassination attempts, or overnight torture from Ishgard’s finest knights— Aymeric has not the time or the interest in staying idle in bed for much longer.

Captain Abel secures his bandages and helps him dress. His full regalia is too weighty for his wounds, so he dons a tunic and dark leather jerkin. It is the best protection his body can handle.

Abel leaves with a bow, and upon his exit, Lucia enters. She holds a thick folder in her hand, full to bursting, no doubt meant for him. Part of him aches at the sight.

“All is well?” she asks.

“Abel seems to think so,” Aymeric sighs. He stands, a little dizzy. His morning has been packed, the quick cup of tea he downed in less than a minute at his manor this morning doing little to fuel him.

Lucia scoffs very audibly, “You look dead on your feet.”

Aymeric only smiles, approaching her and taking the proffered folder from her hand. He takes a glance at the first page and sees a few names he recognizes as members of the True Brothers of the Faith, and his mouth falls into a grimace. Unpleasant business, dealing with the contents of this folder.

“I’ve taken a preliminary look,” Lucia says. “I’ve highlighted the things I find of interest.”

“Thank you, Lucia,” Aymeric responds, and he means it. Too many hours he’s spent simply _reading_ lately, old treatises or requisition forms or horribly dense reports that eat away at his entire evening.

She inclines her head in acknowledgment and sticks to his flank as he exits the Congregation’s infirmary. As they walk, he thumbs through the file to find the first of Lucia’s highlights— a statement from Gibrillont on a recurring patron of his, who only frequents the lower levels yet reeks of a decidedly priestly air.

“Ser,” Lucia calls his attention as they approach the stairs heading down. “Perhaps you ought to take lunch.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. Gibrillont’s patron is often heard lamenting the state of Ishgard, condemning the Lord Commander and dragonkind in the same breath.

“ _Ser_ ,” Lucia tries once more. Only at her brisk tone does he stop in his tracks, neck craning to catch his First Commander’s gaze.

Aymeric blinks. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

She looks at him fondly, but exasperated. “ _Lunch_. Before I have to drag you back up these stairs ere you collapse.”

“Very well,” he acquiesces. “In my office, then.”

“I’ll send word to the kitchens.”

Aymeric continues thumbing through the file as they descend the stairs. Each new page has more troubling information than before, and the mere thought of rooting out the issue makes his wounds ache further. Upon reaching the main entrance of the Congregation, he spots someone approaching in his peripheral.

“Lord Commander,” Handeloup greets. “Mistress Amalia came calling for you. I sent her to your office to wait.”

All thoughts of the True Brothers of the Faith evaporate upon hearing her name. “Oh?”

Handeloup nods. “Aye. Said you sent her a summon?”

His request for the Falcon’s Nest ceremony. He sent that missive to Alphinaud almost a week ago and had nearly forgotten about it with everything on his plate. The Warrior has not been back in Ishgard since he ran into her over a fortnight ago, heading off to some Scion business in the Hinterlands. He’s had plenty of sleepless nights to ponder his feelings, and yet he is no more prepared to face her again than he was when Lucia confronted him about his _affections_. At the thought of that conversation, his eyes flicker to his First Commander; Lucia meets his eyes neutrally, betraying nothing of her thoughts.

“I will meet her at once,” Aymeric says. It is what he would say normally, and yet he feels the heavy weight of Lucia’s stare as if he had said something damning instead.

Handeloup and Lucia both salute, stepping away to return to their duties. Aymeric tucks the folder under his arm, worrying at the string that binds the file together. Briefly, he wonders if this is an inconvenience for Amalia— if it’s a chore, an obligation for her to meet him. But as he pushes the door to his office open, he catches her sitting by his fire, legs tucked to her chest in an oversized chair as she thumbs through the ends of her hair, and she looks up and smiles at him so naturally that he thinks she cannot be dreading it all.

“My friend,” he greets, an echoing smile mirrored on his own face. “Have you been waiting long?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Not at all. Ser Handeloup said you were getting your wounds checked?”

Aymeric tosses the file onto his desk before taking the chair across from her. He can feel his body sag in relief at sitting, even after so short a time standing, “Yes, I feel just fine,” he lies.

She believes him, nodding satisfactorily. Amalia unfolds her legs from the chair and leans forward, staring into the fire for a brief moment. He takes this chance to look at her truly, and doesn’t quite like what he sees; there are dark circles under her eyes, her hair is braided but unkempt the way it is when she’s hurried, and most telling is the seemingly permanent downward tick at the edge of her mouth. She looks bone-deep tired, which is nothing truly new for her, but at the very least she often fights it with the pretense of a good mood.

“Have you only just gotten back to Ishgard?” he asks.

“Hm,” she hums in agreement, gaze still trapped in the flames. “Within the hour.”

A pang of guilt sinks into his gut. “Ah. ‘Tis nothing pressing here. You could rest and return on the morrow if you’d like.”

She seems to break out of her daze at his words, looking at him while shaking her head. “I’m well enough.”

Aymeric knows better than to fight her, but there is clearly something weighing on her, and the same insidious desire to _know more_ about her urges him to say, “How fared your work in the Hinterlands?”

It was the wrong thing to ask, he notices immediately as her face falls and her fingers clench in her lap. He very nearly apologizes, but she beats him to speak. “Horrible,” she mutters.

A dark cloud hangs over her, and he can feel the stressful tension pouring out of her in waves. “Pray forgive me for prying,” he says, pursing his lips. “But… You and yours have been there for me in my direst of moments. If you care for a friendly ear,” he nearly stumbles on his words. “I am here.”

Amalia smiles at him weakly, but her gaze returns back to her lap. They sit in silence for a long moment that Aymeric is afraid to break again.

Eventually, she heaves a sigh and rubs her temples.

“Minifila,” Amalia begins, saying the woman’s name like it takes every ounce of her will to do so. “When we fled Ul’dah, I was tasked with getting her out. But Hydaleyn spoke to her then and made her run back. We never found her in the wreckage, so we’d hoped like Y’shtola and Thancred...“

She breaks off for a moment. Aymeric has never heard a single tale regarding the Scions’ escape from Ul’dah other than what he read in a report. He knew none were accounted for save the three in Ishgard’s refuge, but Amalia and Alphinaud had never spoken of it, both clearly all too willing to focus on moving forward. The Antecedent was a woman he had only spoken to several times regarding official business, but even he could see her kindness and warmth from those interactions alone.

“Hydaelyn has claimed her, body and soul,” Amalia says. “Minfilia is gone. And, well, it’s my fault.”

“The Mother’s divine intervention hardly seems like something you can control.”

Amalia sighs again. “I could have stopped her, dragged her out, but—” she laughs brusquely then, more self-deprecating than anything. “I’m sorry. Minfilia’s mother yelled at me a couple of weeks ago. I guess I’m not over it.”

Aymeric’s stomach twists at what he feels to be a gross injustice. “Overcome by emotion, I’m sure. I know firsthand that you would not hesitate to save a comrade if you believed it to be possible. Surely she does as well.”

She colors slightly, a flush curling up her neck. Her eyes catch on the flickering fire again as she contemplates her words.

“I suppose I don’t think that highly of myself,” she says eventually. “I always feel like I could’ve done more.”

Aymeric leans back against his chair. “Such is the burden of influence.” _And leadership_ , he thinks. Her regret is one that eats away at him too, almost daily. “In my opinion, you have always done your best from the moment I have met you. The world cannot ask for any more.”

Amalia rests her cheek against her palm, eyes unfocused as she thinks. He lets her have the quiet to herself, to take an opportunity and think; something tells him she doesn’t get the opportunity often. He hopes she takes what he said to heart. He dislikes the idea of Amalia doubting her actions, and he can hardly fathom someone berating the _Warrior of Light_ for anything at all…

A soft knock interrupts the quiet, and the door to his office clicks open. “Lord Commander,” an unmasked knight stutters, anxiety clearly written on his face. “My lady. Y-your lunch?”

Aymeric’s eyes spot two servings on the tray. _Lucia,_ he thinks. _She is out to get me_.

“Here, thank you,” Aymeric gestures to the table between himself and the Warrior.

She looks at the knight quizzically as he sets down the tray with their food on it. Her expression evens out enough to thank the knight— genuinely, with a smile and eye contact— and the poor boy turns and leaves as quickly as he came, flushed deep. Aymeric resists the urge to smile. _Starstruck_.

“Lucia must have seen fit to send a meal for you with mine own,” Aymeric clears his throat. He feels a little strange, imagining eating with her. He’s hardly been alone with her without Alphinaud or Lucia nearby, to say nothing of _breaking bread_ with her. “Pray, do not feel obligated to—”

“I never turn down free food,” she interrupts. Eyes bright, a hint of teasing in there if he looks close. She looks a bit happier, her shoulders not quite so weighed down. “Besides, you can tell me about your letter to Alphinaud while we eat.”

A grin splits across his face. “Very well. May I get you tea?”

As he asks, he goes to stand, heading for the tea cart permanently parked by his desk. His vision whites out, balance uneven as he sways on his feet slightly. His head spins. He stood up too fast, or perhaps his horrid diet for the past few weeks has finally caught up to him. He pinches the bridge of his nose to center himself, and as he looks up he sees Amalia half out of her seat, an arm reaching out to him, her fingers almost brushing the edge of his forearm. Her eyes are wide as she looks up at him.

He holds a hand up to signal that he is okay. “Apologies. I forget I must take it slow, lest my injuries resurface.”

“I’ll say,” Amalia agrees. She comes to stand fully in front of him, and her small hand pushes against his chest to urge him back towards his seat. “Sit. I will fetch us tea.”

He lets her move him, if only because he can nearly feel the shape of her palm through his lighter clothing as she pushes harder to make him sit. And yet, she is his guest, and it doesn’t sit right with him. “Ah, I couldn’t—”

“ _Sit_ ,” she insists. The hand on his chest goes to shove his shoulder down firmly in the seat. “Let me.”

Aymeric swallows and nods. Amalia releases him and circles behind his chair to approach his tea cart. He hears the clinking of dishes as she works, but he can only spend the spare moments he has alone breathing deep, centering himself.

“Birch syrup, right?” she asks. “One spoon or two?”

“Two. Thank you.”

She works a moment more, and he hears the clinking of a spoon against the inside of a teacup.

“Thank you for listening,” she says, so quiet he also misses it. "I appreciate it."

His throat is a little dry. “Of course. I am always willing.”

She brings him his tea with a small smile, and he knows he will commit it to memory. So soft, so _personal_ this moment is that he is grateful for the food to keep himself occupied. He likes the look of her curled into his chair, likes the idea of her coming to visit whenever she needs to vent. He likes eating with her— the quaint image of her balancing her plate on her knees, burning her tongue on her too-hot tea. Long after he tells her of his plans for Falcon’s Nest— long after she leaves to handle her own business, saying, _I will be in Ishgard for some time, if you need me_ — he thinks about the moment he shared with her and wonders if it weighs on her mind too.

More heavy on his mind is the way she had agreed to a drink with him, something he had worked up the courage to say for nearly half a bell, and the fond wave goodbye she had given him as she left. That image alongside the hot, twisting and curling anticipation of another moment alone with her follows him longer into the evening, chasing him as he tries to find sleep.


	3. muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh? And how _do_ the two of you get on?” Hilda cajoles. “Whispers in the night say you’re the new archbishop. Or that she is. Or that the two of you are, together, a king and queen of snow and ash.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for #3 muster at ffxivwrite2020. please leave feedback and thank u for reading <3

Hilda’s lips curl back around her teeth in a nearly feral grin. “So, good Ser. Spare a gil for your thoughts.”

Aymeric refrains from speaking plainly. This unofficial muster of Hilda’s watch is, well, rather unimpressive. Most, if not all, are armed with Skysteel firearms, which is perhaps the only thing that identifies them as keepers of the peace. Some are grimey, some have ragged clothes. Almost all are incredibly too skinny and would struggle to hold their own in a physical brawl. Aymeric thinks he sees a few who barely have left childhood behind. All in all, they avoid his gaze, while a small few meet his eyes with a fair amount of derision.

“S’not all the folk,” Hilda continues. “Some got jobs for the day.”

The number doesn’t quite concern him. Hilda’s watch’s deeds are evident, and he knows there are several who would back them in an official setting, the Scions being one such party. And yet, he knows that the nobles of Ishgard will dismiss them outright in such a state.

“Progress has been made,” he says instead, as the report from Lucia’s last visit had indicated much worse. Some not carrying their weapons, a vast majority not showing up at all. “I thank everyone for their hard work.”

His words fail to impress any of the Brume citizens. Hilda laughs brusquely.

“And that’s how I know you’re lying, Ser Knight,” Hilda turns to face him. “We’re a fair sorry bunch, run a bit ragged protecting the city we all love. Only so much we can do without coin.”

One of Hilda’s men echoes her sentiment. Her words bring him back to the crux of the matter. While her Watch has been helping, it’s been entirely unofficial— deemed as a necessity by the two of them personally to keep the peace in such uncertain times. Aymeric has sworn to her he means to integrate them officially into the government so they can have the resources they so desperately need, but it is not an easy process, and he fears the impression they will leave on the nobility will make it a fruitless pursuit.

“This I know. I will send some your way,” Aymeric vows. He has been paying personally for the Watch’s needs, but he can only play his hand so clearly for a short while longer. “Once you have been recognized officially, a more structured system will be arranged, coming straight from the city’s coffers. Clothes for all, and daily meals in the mess.”

“We a charity case to you?” someone calls to him from the crowd.

“No,” he responds readily. “But it is what we provide all knights. As you protect Ishgard, she will provide for you.”

The small crowd quiets. Hilda clicks her teeth. “Promises are all well and good Ser, but coin is what speaks most clearly to us.”

Hilda shoots him a rather loaded look. He knows her words are mostly for those standing before them, that she fully understands the complications involved in what Aymeric is attempting, but she must do her duty as much as he. Her passion for Ishgard’s unification nearly rivals his, despite everything. Nonetheless, Aymeric nods. “I will attempt to get something over to you today, along with a hot meal for everyone to sup with.”

The Mongrel nods approvingly. “Sounds fair enough. Seen what you need to see?”

Aymeric casts one last look out at her men. “I have. Thank you all, once more.”

“You heard the man,” Hilda shouts, and her men scatter.

The Watch dissipates into the Brume, leaving only him and Hilda ducked under a shoddy wooden awning. Hilda waits for the last loiterers to leave before cocking her head at her steadfast lackeys. “Give me a bit of privacy, would ya?”

The two men nod and leave. Hilda crosses her arms and faces Aymeric. “Sorry about the sass. Think some of them need to hear it from your mouth, not mine.”

“No harm done,” he smiles. “I understand the difficulty.”

Hilda nods, surveying out the area in front of them. “Most are loyal regardless, but everyone’s so ready to get in up in arms about the highborn. This isn’t helping.”

Aymeric idly places a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Aye, I expect not. How much do you need?”

Hilda tells him a number. Not outrageous, but significantly more than last time. He cocks a brow. “More recruits,” she grins toothily. “That a problem?”

“Not at all,” Aymeric shakes his head. “I will send someone trustworthy before nightfall, along with the meal.”

She raises her chin in acknowledgment before a rather devious smile crosses her face. “Send your illustrious errand girl this time, hm? Been too long since I’ve seen her face.”

It takes him a moment to fully understand her words. “Amalia?”

“The one and only. Heard she’s back in the city.”

Aymeric smiles weakly. “I hold no power over her schedule.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Hilda grins. Her smile is a dangerous thing, spawning a sinking, anxious worry in his gut. “Bat your pretty eyelashes at her and I’m sure she’ll do whatever you ask.”

He colors, the tips of his ears taking a dark flush. “Pardon?”

“We’re thick as thieves if the mood’s right,” Hilda continues like she never heard him. “Two pints at the Forgotten Knight and we’re like childhood friends.”

As always, when he is around Hilda, his words leave him. “Is that so?”

“Aye,” the machinist grins. “A street urchin’s always a street urchin, and that one’s been playing with the rich folk for too long.”

He always gets the feeling that Hilda sees right through him, despite their rather brief acquaintance, and the rather predatory way she’s looking at him makes him uncomfortable. “I am pleased the two of you get on so well.”

“Oh? And how _do_ the two of you get on?” Hilda cajoles. Always one step ahead. “Whispers in the night say you’re the new archbishop. Or that she is. Or that the two of you are, together, a king and queen of snow and ash.”

Aymeric nearly stammers at Hilda’s pressure, but he swallows it and meets her gaze. “We’ve no such aspirations of power, I assure you.”

“Speaking for the both of you, how quaint,” she drawls. “All in good fun, Lord Commander. Do make sure that meal is hot tonight!”

With a wave over her shoulder, Hilda saunters off, her two lackeys appearing to take her side once more. Aymeric counts backward from twenty before rolling his shoulders, wincing at the flex in his freshly healed abdomen, and heading back to the Congregation. _I’m sending Lucia_ _to the next one_ , he thinks.

* * *

Someone grabs her arm and yanks her away from Tataru.

“You won’t even come to say hi,” Hilda complains, but the petulant tone in her voice is clearly fake.

Amalia snickers. “I didn’t even see you there.” She looks back to Tataru, who has gone back behind the bar, fetching a couple more pints. “I was filling my friend in on a few things.”

“All done with business?” Hilda leans back against the bar, her elbows propping herself up as she takes a good look at the tavern floor. “Gibrillont’s a new batch of mulled wine. I’m sure he’d let you have a little taste.”

“Tempting. I’ve a few other things to do tonight.”

Hilda looks as if she'd spit on the floor if she could. “Halone’s tits you do. Dinner bell’s long been rung. You’re staying here,” Hilda tugs her further, pushes her into the barstool. “With me, and we’re going to _drink_.”

Gibrillont sidles up in front of them, passing two glasses of the aforementioned mulled wine in front of them. “One of my best yet.”

Hilda takes her own glass with glee. “I’ll be the judge of that!” She takes an incredibly generous sip.

Amalia takes hers and brings it to her lips for a much more judicious taste. “You seem pretty excited.”

The Mongrel nearly cackles. “Ser Aymeric has seen fit to provide me another _donation_.” If her tone got any more mischievous, Amalia thinks she would be rubbing her palms together evilly. “For the Watch, of course, but it means my own gil can now go to more important things.” Hilda swirls her wine in its glass. “Like this beauty right here.”

Amalia blinks. “I didn’t realize the Watch was funded.”

“It’s not,” Hilda downs her glass. Amalia is a little afraid of her pacing. “He just pays for it himself for now. Charitable little bugger, isn’t he. I’ve had worse masters, _that’s_ for sure.”

She’d be hard-pressed to find a single noble in Ishgard that would agree to that besides Aymeric, Amalia thinks. “Sounds just like him.”

Hilda’s head snaps towards her. Startlingly quiet for a moment, eyes pinched as she stares. For her short time knowing Hilda, Amalia has learned that the half-elezen has very strange quirks— one being her frequent mood-swings when comfortable, in the company of friends— so she sits quietly and waits for Hilda to finish whatever it is that she’s doing. Amalia takes a sip of her wine and meets her gaze.

“He’s a good one, ain’t he?” Hilda asks, incredibly serious.

Amalia slowly places her glass back on the bar. She can’t tell if Hilda is asking her opinion, or if she’s asking for her to agree. Fortunately for her, she does. “One of the best, without a doubt.”

Hilda leans closer. “You like him?”

Amalia fidgets. “...I do, yes.”

Hilda stares.

“...Strange,” She mutters after a long moment, turning back to her drink. “The lot of you.”

Amalia shrugs and takes another sip. The wine is excellent. “You’re much stranger, of that I’ve no doubt.”

Hilda slams her hands on the bar. “Shots, Gibrillont! I’ve an urge to show this girl who’s boss.”

Amalia sneers, “Gladly.”

From behind the bar Tataru sighs, drying off a freshly-cleaned glass.


	4. clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Minfilia’s… _death_ ,” the Warrior says, but the word doesn’t quite fit. “It has clinched the matter. I fear he’ll never forgive me, for what I’ve said and what I’ve done."
> 
> The Warrior of Light needs someone to talk to. Aymeric is ready to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for day #4, clinch. thank you for all the kudos, bookmarks & subs <3

There is something going on between the Scions.

Or perhaps, Aymeric thinks, just between the only two in Ishgard currently: Thancred and Amalia. The Warrior of Light had graciously accepted Aymeric’s plea for personal assistance with the peace conference, but she had arrived at this meeting with the newly acquainted Thancred in tow, who had declared himself at their disposal with a flick of his wrist. But Aymeric wonders _why_ he is here, standing beside his fellow Scion, when there is such tangible displeasure rolling off both their bodies.

The room is stiff with tension, thick enough to feel it in the air. If Aymeric had not seen the fondness with which the Warrior regards her other companions— nor had he not seen the shine in her eyes as they discussed Thancred’s rescue several weeks back— nothing would have seemed out of place. The two of them are all business. Thancred provides his input when prompted and Amalia nods when spoken to. All is as usual except for the grim set of the rogue’s jaw and the unnaturally stiff line of the Warrior’s shoulders. They had entered together, and Thancred had held the door open for her, but his gaze was locked somewhere over her head while her eyes were stuck to the floor.

Lucia sees it too, if he had read her brief glance right. Lord Artoirel remains as impassive as ever. Amalia looks brittle enough to snap in half at the slightest touch. Nearly half a bell they’ve spent in his office, and she hasn’t thawed a bit.

Aymeric snaps out of his reverie as Artoirel gestures towards the map spread across Aymeric’s desk. “My scouts have reported strange findings here,” Artoirel points to part of the hamlet’s perimeter. “Unwarranted debris and footsteps after dark. A potential access point. More unexplained tracks here.” He points further south.

Thancred rubs his chin. “Promising. I’ll need to reconnaissance the place overnight myself.” His eyes dart around the map. For all his easygoing bravado, he is rather astute, and Aymeric has been impressed with his contributions in their brief acquaintance. “Preferably with a writ of contract on the off chance some heroic Temple Knight decides to question me. Anyone care to provide?”

“I can produce one,” Lucia speaks up. “How soon do you leave for Falcon’s Nest?”

Thancred hesitates, if only for the briefest moment. “Today.”

“So soon?” Artoirel frowns. “Master Thancred, the conference isn’t for a fortnight yet. There is no need to rush.”

Aymeric chances a glance towards Amalia. Her gaze remains downcast. The line of her jaw is taut.

“You can never be too prepared.” Thancred’s words ring a little hollow. “No reason to delay. Anything else of note?”

Everyone looks to Aymeric for the final word, save the Warrior. The Lord Commander clears his throat. “Not at the moment. My thanks, Master Thancred. I am relieved we have your expertise.”

Thancred nods. “The writ, then?”

“...With me,” Lucia says. She dips her head in deference towards Aymeric before retreating. Thancred does the same before turning on his heel to follow. The room hangs in strained silence as the door shuts behind them.

Artoirel turns to face the woman next to him, dropping the rigid tone he uses for political talk. “Amalia. Will you be joining him?” He pauses, turning his body away from Aymeric as if to pretend he is not privy to their conversation. “Father asked if you’d be with us for dinner.”

“...I will not,” she says, voice tight. One of her hands is curled into a fist.“You can tell Count Edmont I will see him later.”

“Alright.” He looks as if he’d like to say something further. Instead, he straightens and faces Aymeric. “I beg your leave.”

Aymeric shuffles where he stands behind his desk, thoroughly uncomfortable. “Thank you, Lord Artoirel. Have a good evening.”

Artoirel eyes Amalia one last time before exiting, leaving the two of them alone. She has not relaxed at all; in fact, Aymeric realizes as he peers at her, she seems rather _angry_. The only time he’s seen her like this was the bubbling rage she had entered the Congregation with when Alphinaud and Tataru were imprisoned. He is not one to frequently pry into personal affairs, but he recalls the slow, warm way Amalia spoke to him— _thank you for listening_ — how calm she had been after they spoke, and he figures if he can make that happen again, he ought to try.

“...Is aught amiss?” Aymeric’s question feels like it breaks a fragile, dangerous silence.

Amalia scowls. “I apologize for his behavior,” she bites out. “He doesn’t usually behave like such an ass.”

He doesn’t consider Thancred’s behavior particularly deserving of such a description. He was brief, to the point, if not a little hurried. Not quite rude, but clearly seeking something from the arrangement. Aymeric struggles with what to say. “Nothing to forgive,” he settles on. “His services are most welcome here.”

“He loves to insert himself,” she continues as if she hadn’t heard him. “He calls it ‘repaying the Scions’ debt.’ But he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

Aymeric’s hands fidget. He wishes he was wearing his sword if only so he could rest a hand on its pommel. Amalia seems likely to burst, so he stays quiet.

She meets his gaze. Her eyes burn with fervor, and the sight strikes Aymeric. “I took what you said to heart. You were right.”

They haven’t spoken since they shared a meal in his office. “About the Antecedent?” Aymeric guesses. 

“Yes. I’ve come to realize that if she had not submitted to Hydaelyn then, she would’ve done it at some point. Delaying the inevitable. The will of the Mother is naught to be denied,” Amalia frowns. “And Minfilia would never let that happen.”

She drifts then, likely reflecting over her lost comrade. Aymeric strains to bring the conversation back on track. “I take it Master Thancred does not feel the same.”

“He has been disappointed with me since I told him what happened,” she sighs. “There was hope we’d find her somewhere, floating in the lifestream…” That hope was dashed against the wall, Aymeric knows. “Minfilia was special to him. I told him it was fate. He misliked what I said.”

“Minfilia’s… _death_ ,” Amalia continues, but the word doesn’t quite fit. “It has clinched the matter. I fear he’ll never forgive me, for what I’ve said and what I’ve done. But,” and here her scowl returns. “He’s no right to waltz in and behave in such a way. Childish is what it is, but when the mood strikes him he fancies himself beyond reproach. Work yourself to death, distance yourself from all those who care— surely _that_ is the way to honor Minfilia’s sacrifice.”

She is _venting,_ he realizes rather late. Venting to _him_ , after he had spent weeks pondering if their relationship had dared to move past the professional. She is a torrent of emotions— resignation, hot anger— and now her face falls a bit, eyebrows curving upwards as her shoulders try to fold in on themselves. “How do I make him understand?” she asks, and she sounds so small. “It’s just not getting through.”

 _Advice_ , Aymeric chants to himself. _She wants advice. She is here, spiraling in your office because she wants to hear what you have to say._ “I have always had difficulty getting Estinien to listen. I’m sure you’re familiar with that aspect of his personality.” He tries for wit, to see if it’ll make her smile. She glances at him and the corners of her lips tug upwards for a moment.

Aymeric can’t resist a grin of his own. “He likes to pretend he cares not for a word I say. But he needs time to process things, to understand how he truly feels and what he wants to do about it. He listens, considers my words, buries himself in his duty and does what he likes in his own time. Perhaps Master Thancred is the same way.”

She is thinking, he can see it. Aymeric waits a moment before continuing. “If he cared for her so, it may take time.”

Amalia’s expression takes a decidedly melancholy turn. “...I have been there, too.”

Haurchefant. One of Aymeric’s many guilts. He wets his lips, trying to bid himself to speak, but he can think of nothing that would be comforting coming from the man who caused such a tragedy to occur. They sit in silence.

Amalia straightens. “I’ll be patient. You are right,” she cocks her head to the side, offering Aymeric a small smile. “You seem to always know what to say.”

The praise has his ears warming, his toes curling. “You flatter me.”

“Mmm, it’s true.” Her eyes crinkle. “I always feel at ease, after we speak.”

Aymeric spreads a hand out on his desk. His heart beats fast. He is disoriented by what she says. “I would offer whatever I can, to comfort.” Too many words are in his mouth, fighting for dominance on what to say. His tongue is thick. “I enjoy speaking with you.”

She looks a little surprised, and he balks at his own words, chin dipping to focus on his desk instead. Too much like a confession, and he thinks he needs to correct it. He sees her shift in his peripheral, so he looks up.

“I enjoy it too,” she beams.

Her pleasant countenance spurs him on. “I’ve said it before, but if you ever desire a friendly ear, I am always available.”

“As am I,” she echoes. “Whenever I can.”

There is a hot, coiling satisfaction inside him. He wants to reach out to her, touch her arm. Pull her close. Hold her against him. He just wants her near. _Too far_. He fights the urge, offering her a true smile. “I am pleased to hear it.”

Her face tells him she is pleased too. She’s so beautiful. He cannot stand it. He wonders if she knows.

They stare at each other.

A knock on his door. “Lord Commander,” Lucia’s voice. “An attaché of House Dzemael is here, for your scheduled meeting.”

Amalia’s lips curl. “Duty calls. I’ll leave you be.” She turns to leave.

“Pray call on me again,” he blurts. The words spill from his mouth. “If you ever feel the need.”

She considers him for a moment, and he colors at his lack of restraint. “Definitely,” her face rounds with her happiness. She offers her usual wave goodbye.

Amalia slinks past Lucia as she opens the door, his First Commander stepping aside to let her pass. “See you, Lucia,” she bids farewell.

“Good evening.” Lucia watches her go before turning to Aymeric. “All is well?”

“Aye,” Aymeric smiles. His cheeks feel as if they’d split if his grin was any larger. His face is warm, his body is warm, his heart is even warmer. He’s sure Lucia is looking at him as if he’d grown a third limb. “All is well.”


	5. matter of fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucia’s report is, as usual, straight to the point. Aymeric typically appreciates this about his First Commander, but today every sentence she wrote makes his head pound even harder.
> 
> Or, Lucia reports in on their first attempt at the Falcon's Nest peace conference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for day #5: matter of fact. slight canon divergence in this chapter regarding the WOL's participation in the revolt @ falcon's nest. thank you all once again :>

Lucia’s report is, as usual, straight to the point. Aymeric typically appreciates this about his First Commander, but today every sentence she wrote makes his head pound even harder.

 _There are dissenters within the Convictors.  
_ _A woman disguised as a barmaid led the demonstration.  
_ _Myself and Lord Artoirel de Fortemps were lured away from Falcon’s Nest.  
_ _Aforementioned woman drugged the Warrior of Light.  
_ _Lord Emmanellain de Fortemps ordered the shooting of the aforementioned woman.  
_ _Aforementioned woman is in the care of our chirurgeons. Recovery is expected.  
_ _Witnesses say a manservant of house Fortemps was injured by dissenters.  
_ _Witnesses say a Scion punched Lord Emmanellain de Fortemps.  
_ _Witnesses say Warrior of Light was hauled away by Scion companion._

Aymeric pinches the bridge of his nose. All this and more he has heard from others, and from Thancred himself after he deposited the drugged Warrior at House Fortemps, but reading it like this makes his stomach turn.

Lucia stands before him, ill-at-ease. She had returned to him only after cleaning up affairs in Falcon’s Nest, as she should have, so the hour is late and the exhaustion is heavy on both their faces. So rarely does he feel the need to correct her behavior that being put in the position tastes bitter on his tongue. 

“I do not blame you,” Aymeric says. It is the first words he has spoken to her since she laid her report down on his desk.

“Thank you, Ser.”

Her voice is stiff. She only sounds this way in public, or in terse times like this. Aymeric’s mouth wrinkles into a frown. “I’m sure there is nothing I could say to you that you haven’t already said to yourself.”

Lucia shifts where she stands. “...That is likely, Ser.”

He is too tired, too discouraged by the day’s events to conjure up a proper speech. The weight on Lucia’s brow tells him she feels the same. He tosses Lucia’s report to the side of his desk. “Rest, Lucia. That is all.”

“But—” she stammers. “But, Ser—”

“ _Rest_ ,” he sighs. “We will need our full attention to make amends.”

Hesitantly, Lucia nods. Her hands twitch against her sides. “...Only if you rest, as well.”

The stiffness of his muscles from sitting in his chair all day, eyes skimming reports and drafting orders, agrees with his First Commander’s suggestion. “You have my word.”

Lucia nods but does not move. It’s a familiar dance with the two of them; she will not leave until he does if only to guarantee his participation in their deal. Aymeric shuts off the oil lamp on his desk, standing and tucking the reports he wants to read thoroughly into a folder. Lucia takes the cue and begins to smother the fire. They meet at the door to his office and they leave together. He bids her farewell at their usual place of separation, and he heads back to his own manor.

As usual at this hour, his foyer is cold and quiet. He rarely feels the need to keep his staff on-hand, and the ones who do report regularly leave at appropriate hours, most often when he is still at the Congregation. Nothing but a dimmed oil lamp on the wall awaits his arrival. He toes off his boots, shucks his coat, detours to his chambers to finally rid himself of his cumbersome armor, then heads to his study where a dying fire awaits him. His steward must’ve left long ago. The fire is coaxed back to life, and he sets the kettle of water his steward left for him above the flame. Back aching and knees strained, he lowers himself onto a loveseat to wait for the water, and his head lolls against the back of the couch. His manor is quiet. He only hears the crackling of the fire. Before his mother had passed, Aymeric could always hear some distant shuffling— some servant walking down the hall— but now it is almost always so silent, devoid of life.

His kettle whistles.

He makes himself a cup of tea and sits at the chair behind his desk.

Aymeric removes the reports he had taken home from their folder and shuffles through them. He needs to re-read them—needs to commit to memory the details from the riot at Falcon’s Nest— and yet his brain is unwilling, his vision preemptively blurring at the thought of reading any more reports. His fingers itch, his mind too busy to simply retire for the night— he is uneasy, anxious to do something.

His mind lingers on one thing.

Aymeric produces a fresh parchment and dips his quill into his inkpot. His pen hovers over the page before beginning.

 _Amalia,_ he writes.

He twists his pen in his fingers once, twice. _I have heard of the events at Falcon’s Nest._

Aymeric frowns and tosses the letter. Surely, if she has woken from her drug-induced slumber, Thancred has informed her of his report. He wonders if she even remembers what happened— from the way Thancred told it, he had managed to rouse her during the peak of the trouble, and she witnessed the ringleader being shot, but she had promptly succumbed to the dosage again once the adrenaline wore off. The Warrior of Light groggily stumbled around the hamlet as Ishgard fought amongst itself. The overwhelming relief Aymeric felt at hearing it was a sleeping drought, not _lethal poison_ , had been indescribable.

Aymeric shakes his head, willing himself to focus on the task at hand.

 _Amalia_ , he rewrites. _Pray accept my deepest apologies for the events at Falcon’s Nest._ He pauses to arrange his words in his head before committing them to paper. Weariness tugs at Aymeric’s eyes, but he has a deep-seated urge to write to her, to apologize on behalf of his countrymen. He has not the energy for his usual prose; he thinks of Lucia’s report, short and sweet, and puts his pen to paper once more.

 _It pains me to see Ishgard treat you so._ His mind conjures up, “I want to protect you from such things always,” but it feels too intense, too _romantic_ for what their relationship is. _Relationship_ , he nearly scoffs at himself. They have barely acknowledged their friendship as is. He is a little unsettled at how readily his mind had offered such a sentiment.

He tries for something less forward. _I endeavor to make sure you and yours feel safe in the city you have saved._

 _I have failed to do so, and for that, you have my sincere regret._

Aymeric struggles for words to convey the depth of his guilt. It is something that plagues him in his darkest moments; Count Edmont and Aymeric have provided asylum for the Scions, but what has Ishgard asked of them? Salvation is the answer, and Aymeric finds there is nothing he can do to successfully repay the Scions, her most of all. Her bodily sacrifice is apparent more and more day by day— her exhaustion, her scars, her being _drugged_ — and worst of all, _Haurchefant_ , who Aymeric has hardly let himself have the time to grieve. He’s not sure he deserves it.

He groans aloud. Melancholy is _not_ what he intended for his night, yet here it comes regardless. He regards his poor attempt at a letter for a moment before setting his quill down. Aymeric stands and heads to the liquor cart tucked in the corner. He gravitates towards his usual brandy but instead selects a whiskey gifted to him by some La Noscean merchant who he had provided access to the city for ages past. It will burn, he knows, but he finds he could use the extra push.

* * *

The effort of raising her arm to accept the proffered envelope is the hardest thing she’s done this week. 

“Any better?” Count Edmont asks as he sits down in the chair placed by her bedside. An entire day later, she no longer is dragged into sleep by the drug, but her body is not cooperating. Thancred tells her he thinks another day is all it’ll take to get the drug out her system; Amalia fears it may be a couple more.

“I’m awake, which is a start,” she sighs. The Count leans forward to help her sit up in bed, and as he retreats she examines the letter. The waxed seal is unfamiliar to her.

Her puzzled expression must clue Edmont into her train of thought. “House Borel,” he offers with an expression that tells her he has told her this before, during one of their many lessons in Ishgardian culture she has failed to retain. She is gifted in many things, but politics have never been one of them. “Addressed to you, personally.”

She does a double-take at the crisp scrawl of her name on the front of the envelope, and her stomach wriggles in strange anticipation. Her time with Aymeric recently has left her surprised and slightly confused after each meeting, wondering when they developed such easy conversation and why she has only noticed it just now. It’s an unusual dissociation she feels recalling the time she spent alone in his office with him, every single action and word spoken so ingrained into her memory for a reason she hasn’t figured out. He has always been complimentary towards her but something feels _off_ and she can’t quite place it. Gratitude for dealing with Nidhogg, she guesses, and his struggle to properly repay her. She has never expected thank-yous and praises from the people of Ishgard, not once, and she has certainly never needed Ser Aymeric to bend over backwards to prove something to her. It’s not something she wants now, not ever.

The sharp edge of the paper brings her back to reality. She relishes the exertion it takes to slide her fingers under the envelope flap and pop the wax seal off. Amalia feels the harder she tries to force herself to move, the quicker she can get out of this damned bed. She removes a single piece of parchment from the envelope and unfolds it. The letter is rather short.

_Amalia,_

_Pray accept my deepest apologies for the events at Falcon’s Nest._ _It pains me to see Ishgard treat you so. I endeavor to make sure you and yours feel safe in the city you have saved._ _I have failed to do so, and for that you have my sincere regret._ _I trust you are recuperating well under House Fortemps’ care, but please do not hesitate to request additional aid. As always, any succor I can provide is readily yours._

_Truthfully, I continue to struggle with properly conveying mine own gratitude to you for everything you have done, and so far my efforts feel woefully inadequate. I find that we have developed a pleasant camaraderie in the time you’ve come to Ishgard, and I shall not squander it. The peace conference may be delayed, but I have not forgotten about our promised drink, if you can forgive me for my shortcomings._

_Till next we meet,_

_Aymeric_

Amalia blinks at the parchment a few times.

She blushes.

Count Edmont’s lips curl into an easy grin. “Has the Lord Commander sent good tidings?”

She folds the letter and slides it back into the envelope, trying to will away the color creeping up her throat and cheeks. Her mouth twitches into an uneasy frown. “Why does he write so,” she searches for the word. “ _Flowery_?”

“That has always been his way, since he was a boy,” Edmont smiles fondly. “Ser Aymeric’s deeds alone did not raise him to Lord Commander. His conviction is what draws people to his cause.”

“I guess so,” she mutters, thoroughly unnerved. Never has she had someone speak to her thus, with such composed grace and pointed compliments. All the time Hilda says she spends with high society has failed to prepare her for _this._

Amalia reaches to set the letter on her nightstand, and Edmont settles back in his chair. “He is earnest,” Edmont continues. “I’m sure you know by now. Whatever it is he says to you,” and Edmont raises a brow then, his tone developing a slight _warning_ to it; it shocks her, this privilege of having someone to speak to her like a child, doting and worrisome and cautious all at the same time. “He means it, thoroughly.”

His words make the flush on her face deepen, but Edmont graciously ignores it, pulling a small novel from his coat pocket. “Shall I continue where I left off?”

Amalia nods, burying her stiff fingers in her blanket. “Please do.”


	6. chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The patience she’s tried for these past few weeks leaves her. She dislikes how he pushes her around, how everything runs on his schedule when it comes to her. “Spit it out,” she scowls. “If what you have to say is so important.”
> 
> “That man is in love with you,” Thancred says, utterly serious. “If he hasn’t figured it out yet, he will soon.”
> 
> Thancred wants to have a talk with the Warrior of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay! i haven't published work in nearly 6-7 years, so it's been really really hard trying to whip myself into shape to keep this at a semi-decent pace. i enjoy the challenge of using the ffxiv write prompts even though in the end i will probably be months behind!!
> 
> for ffxivwrite 2020 day #6: free day

Amalia’s rapport with Thancred has eased back into strained civility ever since he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her out of Falcon’s Nest. In truth, she hardly recalls anything from the time she was drugged; the woman being shot she remembers of course, but other than that it’s brief glances of Thancred’s face: him repeatedly asking if she thinks she’s been poisoned, the nauseating feeling of him shaking her awake, his bared teeth as he speaks to Emmanellain. When she woke to learn he'd punched the youngest Fortemps son right in the face, she was torn between awe, anger, and slight annoyance that she didn’t get to see it herself. Neither of them will tell her what they argued about, but she figures that could only mean it was serious, and she doesn’t pry where she’s not welcome. Nonetheless, she didn’t chide him. She offered quiet thanks, and he had waved her gratitude away.

She keeps Aymeric’s advice echoing in her mind: _give him time_. She says nothing when Thancred skirts around her, when he is a little too curt and it sets off a flicker of petulance within her, and she stubbornly refuses to admit how truly _hurt_ she is by it all. She has known Thancred nearly a decade, since she was a grime-covered barmaid in Momodi’s tavern working to repay the roof the Lalafell had put over her head, and she had thought he valued her more than this: dismissal, being ignored, quiet spite whenever she reads between the lines of his words.

He has kept his distance for weeks now. So when he snags her arm and pulls her aside outside of the Congregation, her feet stumbling after him as he tugs her away from the posted Temple Knights, she’s immediately a few steps behind in the conversation, her mind scrambling to figure out what he’s doing _speaking_ to her.

“What,” she sputters. “What are you doing?”

Thancred dips his head to catch her gaze, his eye contact intense and steady. “You aren’t just agreeing to everything he says because you feel like you need to, are you?”

She tries to piece together what he’s asking. Aymeric, she thinks he’s referencing, and the grand melee he’s invited her to participate in. He had asked so earnestly, so hopefully, that she would’ve said yes even if she hadn’t wanted to. However. “I wanted to,” she insists. Her arm is a little sore where he’s grabbing her. “I’ve no reason to say no.”

“You don’t need a reason,” Thancred pushes back. “You are your own person.”

“Still.” Amalia tugs at his wrist to remove his grip on her. “It’s what I want. I would do it for Ishgard.”

Thancred releases her and takes a step away, giving her space. He’s eyeing her still, in the way only he has, reading her body language and expressions to try and figure out. She nearly pouts; she can do this too, so she squares her shoulders and stares right back. His mouth is tugged into a slight frown, his brow furrowed, but she can tell he is _concerned_.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He hesitates. Amalia knows this can only mean he’s going to say something she’s not going to like. Thancred crosses his arms. “You never believe me when I say these things.”

The patience she’s tried for these past few weeks leaves her. She dislikes how he pushes her around, how everything runs on his schedule when it comes to her. “Spit it out,” she scowls. “If what you have to say is so important.”

“That man is in love with you,” Thancred says, utterly serious. “If he hasn’t figured it out yet, he will soon. You wouldn’t think him a politician for how blatantly he wears it on his face.”

“I,” Amalia is lost. “What?”

“I know you,” he says like a vow. “You wouldn’t notice half these things if they smacked you across the cheek. You need to be careful,” he warns her. “A Lord Commander’s affections are naught to be ignored.”

“Careful?” Amalia stutters. She is confused, a slight hint of apprehension tugging at her gut, but she instinctually fights against the implication in Thancred’s tone. “He— he wouldn’t do anything to me.”

“Amalia,” he sighs like she is missing the point. “Of course he wouldn’t. But—” Thancred breaks off, frustrated, blurting, “He is the single most powerful man in Ishgard. You are the _Warrior of Light_. I suggest you think carefully about what that means and what you want before you indulge his wishes once again.”

She wets her lips. “He’s not in love with me.” Of this, she is sure.

Thancred is silent for one long moment. “Perhaps. But he fancies you.”

“Not the same,” she rasps.

There is a hint of panic on her face. She stares at the rogue’s chest as she tries to process her thoughts. Thancred’s scrutinizing gaze does not miss it. “Putting two and two together now? Good. The Scions are a _neutral party_ ,” he enunciates, and she mislikes his tone. She can feel herself bristling at every new word he speaks. “This entire operation has been devoid of neutrality from the start. Born of dire need, I understand, but I fear we are slipping deeper and deeper into a hole we cannot crawl out of unscathed. You and Alphinaud may as well don Ishgardian blue and call yourself a Fortemps. Convenient that an Ascian plot spurred this all along, but will the world view it that way, truly?”

He steps closer to her once more, commanding her entire attention. “This is the kind of thing that is taken advantage of. You must needs _prepare_ ,” Thancred says, and his eyes soften oh-so-slightly. “If _this_ is to your liking.”

“I don’t know _what’s_ to my liking,” she murmurs, but it sounds weaker than she’d like.

Thancred pauses. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he says in the calm, quiet tone she knows means he’s serious. “I know these past few months...” Thancred trails off, losing his thoughts. “I worry for you. The people of Eorzea have no reason to pardon Ishgard for their abandonment, and I fear that your presence alone cannot turn the tide of _this_ battle.”

 _Politics_ , he means. The same Ul’dahn men who plotted her death damning her for siding so obviously with Ishgard. The Alliance leaders may put their trust in Ser Aymeric, but the people cannot be expected to do the same. He is giving her personal and professional advice, she realizes; _Be wary of siding with Ishgard so easily_ , she deciphers. _Be wary of Ser Aymeric’s proximity._ The perfect narrative is there, Amalia understands in this moment. She is not ignorant of the rumors surrounding her and the Lord Commander— these kinds of things have always followed her since taking on the mantle of Warrior of Light. She knows all too well how it takes just a whisper in the right ear to turn the world against someone, how easily an action can be misrepresented if twisted the right way.

Amalia tries for conviction in her tone. This is a conversation she has decided she does not want to have now. “I think you are being paranoid.”

Quick as can be, Thancred retorts, “And I think you are in denial.”

She purses her lips, resisting the near-childish urge to argue with him. “I appreciate your advice, Thancred. I’ll think on it.”

He looks as if he has much more he’d like to say. Instead, he stiffly nods. Amalia thinks he is probably thoroughly unconvinced, but she also knows that he must feel much better after saying his piece. This is the most they’ve spoken to each other in nearly a month, and something bubbles to the surface and makes her reach out to grab his wrist. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

Thancred softens under her touch. “Neither do I.”

“So let’s not,” Amalia urges. “I am—” _Lonely_ , she thinks to herself. She hasn’t seen Alphinaud in weeks, Y’shtola and Krile too, and Tataru often comes home late in the night, exhausted. The Fortemps manor has felt empty since the Vault. Thancred not speaking to her has hurt more than she’s been willing to say. “I just don’t like it,” she settles on, something wedged in her throat.

“...Alright,” Thancred mutters. He squeezes the hand that holds him. “Alright.”

Amalia releases his wrist after a few moments of standing, staring at the other. She’s sure a few Temple Knights have lollygagged to see what the two Scions could possibly be discussing, huddled into some alley outside the Congregation, words pointed and body language harsh. She hopes none of them heard.

“I’ll drop it,” Thancred promises, but she can tell he’s about to have the last word. “But for your own good, you ought to believe me when I say he likes you.”

“Stop,” she hisses, face reddening.

A slow, curling smirk arrives on Thancred’s face. She hasn’t seen it in a long time. “He carries a torch for you, I’ll bet gil on it.”

“Thancred.”

The rogue tilts his head to the side. “I thought, ‘Is it love?’ when his eyes lit up upon your agreement. Surely he could find an easier target to pursue—”

She smacks him, hard, in his shoulder. To his credit, he barely winces.

“I’m gonna kill you,” she swears under her breath. “Let’s get out of here before someone hears your ridiculous ideas.”

Thancred shrugs and lets her drag him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading :) some real wol/aymeric should be incoming soon!


	7. nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilda blows a raspberry and tugs the Warrior of Light towards her. “Keep your doom and gloom to yourself,” she snips. The crone cackles in response.
> 
> The Warrior of Light gets a palm reading and learns a little bit about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very late, but still determined! for day #7 nonagenarian

Amalia had tossed Thancred’s words around in her head all night, slept on it, thought about it all the next day, slept on it again, and still finds herself nowhere near knowing how she feels about it. She needs a distraction while trapped behind Ishgard’s walls, knowing that Thancred keeps tabs on her movements even if she doesn’t see him at all, and he’ll tattle to Alphinaud if she tries anything more extensive than her morning stretches after the fiasco at Falcon’s Nest. She is utterly restless both in mind and body, and it’s this desperation to do _anything_ that finds her trailing after Hilda in the Brume during one of her patrols.

If Hilda suspects anything strange behind their sudden hangout, she says nothing. Her chatter as they wind through the slums’ narrowed streets keeps Amalia busy, allowing her mind to avoid the questions that have been plaguing her since Thancred threw them in her face. Hilda talks about everything and nothing— the drinks at the Forgotten Knight the day before, some gossip she overheard at the Manufactory, a horrible encounter she had with a priest the other day. Amalia laughs and questions when prompted, and Hilda says nothing about her.

The patrol has been seemingly standard, but Amalia has noticed her eyes flickering to and fro as they walked, sharper than usual. Hilda kicks a lid off a crate by her feet, examining the contents inside. Finding nothing, she sighs and keeps walking.

“Looking for something in particular?” Amalia asks.

“Had some strange deaths the past couple of days,” Hilda mutters. “Thinkin’ it’s laced somnus or something.”

The drug is rampant in Ul’dah, and Amalia used to know many people who had succumbed to addiction. “Ah. That’s awful.”

Hilda sighs. “S’nothing new.”

They walk in silence for a few moments before something down an alley catches Hilda’s attention. “Down here,” she points, and Amalia dutifully follows.

The something she sees turns out to be an elderly woman sitting against a wall, still as stone, hunched under layers of blanket and cloak. She is so old that Amalia doesn’t think she’s ever seen someone as wrinkled as she, not even Matoya, and it’s hard to tell if she’s even awake through all the folds on her face. For a brief moment, she fears the woman is dead.

“Wake up, ya old hag,” Hilda shouts as she lightly kicks at the woman’s feet.

Amalia sputters. “Hilda!”

Hilda looks back at her, true confusion on her face. “What?” The old woman grumbles at her feet, shifting, and Hilda catches Amalia’s glance of concern. “Oh, this bat? She’s a right demon, don’t worry yourself over her. Some think she’s some kind of witch. But she sees everything in these streets, day and night. Get a pint in her and she’ll be screaming at anything and everything through the night, though. Not very witchy to me.”

“Thal’s balls,” Amalia curses, her brows furrowed still at the display.

The woman coughs, deep and painful, and groans when she finishes. “Fuck you, Mongrel.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too granny,” Hilda scowls back. “I need to ask you a question. I’ll even throw in a meal if you don’t lie to my face again.”

The woman cranes her neck up to look at Hilda, and her thin lips curl into a grin, revealing missing and rotted teeth. She cackles a little, a biting, evil sound. “What makes ya think I’ve got words for a brat like you?”

“Fine,” Hilda hisses through her teeth. “A meal and an ale. But you better not come screaming up my street tonight.”

The woman’s grin persists. She notices Amalia then, standing off to the side and staring at the strange display, wondering if she should do anything or just try and pretend like she doesn’t exist. Her smile vanishes, the wrinkles around her mouth forming a deep frown. “Who’s this?”

“No one,” Hilda lies. “A friend. Look at me. I got a question.”

The woman keeps staring. Amalia feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand, and the part of her that has seen the unbelievable aspects of this world wonders if this woman _is_ more than the decrepit bum she appears to be. There’s a precise, pointed way she looks at her now, cannier than she would seem, and Amalia briefly wishes she had any talent for magic to see if she could feel the mana rolling off the woman before her.

She looks away. “Ask,” she spits.

“Seen any somnus come through here?” Hilda asks, to the point. “And not whatever you’ve got shoved up your arse under all those blankets. New stuff. Laced. Probably not from one of the usuals.”

She considers Hilda for a moment, and bony fingers come out of hiding from under her blankets to convulse restlessly in her palm. A nervous twitch maybe, or a sign of thought. “Ain’t seen a thing.”

Hilda sighs, long-suffering, and pulls a coin out of her pocket. She flicks it to the woman’s feet.

Her putrid grin returns, spindly fingers reaching to hide the coin in her sleeves. “Some Lominsian bloke was cryin’ about his profits,” she says. Her voice is thin and raspy. “Tattoo on his neck. Missin’ an eye.”

Amalia can see the gears in Hilda’s mind turning as she processes the information. She briefly wonders if she should offer any help, but somnus operations are a little more dangerous than the average smuggling trade, and she’s sure Thancred would probably literally kick her ass if he smelled her fifty yalms near one.

“Think I may know where to find the bugger,” Hilda muses to herself. “Thanks, granny. I’ll send someone with your food soon. Don’t wander off; they won’t go lookin’ for you if you’re not here.”

The lady spits at Hilda’s feet. Hilda rolls her eyes but takes no action; Amalia wonders how often she comes to her for information, or if this is a last-ditch effort kind of conversation. Hilda turns to leave back the way they came, and Amalia turns too, stopping once the woman’s hoarse voice reaches her ears. “Warrior,” she calls, low enough that she almost misses it.

Amalia turns. The contemplative look is back, her eyes glinting sharp in the daylight. Hilda scoffs from behind, but Amalia can’t bring herself to be as dismissive to the crone as Hilda was. She takes a step closer.

“Come ‘ere,” she demands.

Amalia complies, and when she’s close enough the woman reaches up and snatches her left hand, pulling her down to crouch next to her. She hears the scuff of Hilda’s feet on the cobblestone, feels her presence directly at her back, but no one says anything. Her long nails scratch against Amalia’s palm, sending a chill up her spine.

Hilda sucks her teeth. “You’re gonna catch something. The plague, maybe.”

The woman’s mouth twists and turns, wriggling across her face as she stares at Amalia’s palm. She ditches the left palm to snatch the right. Her fingers and nails trace the lines across her skin, pushes at the muscles and pinches at the skin. Amalia has no idea what she’s doing, but the same apprehension she felt earlier towards the woman comes back twofold now, and she finds it’d be better to let her have her way.

“Had a bad time of it, when you were young,” the woman speaks, and Amalia’s not sure if it’s her imagination or not, but she sounds clearer, voice a bit smoother. A finger traces a wrinkle on her palm. “Don’t have many friends. A lonely sort,” she tilts Amalia’s palm at an angle. “But ya want love, want it bad, but yer scared of it too. A mite stiff. You think too much for too long. Got lots of fights in yer future.”

She turns her head to the side and clucks, “Yer gonna die young.”

Hilda blows a raspberry and tugs Amalia towards her, snatching her hand away. “Keep your doom and gloom to yourself,” she snips. Hilda guides her away, muttering to herself. “Fucking weird.”

The crone cackles again but says no more.

Outside of the alley, Amalia can feel the wind sharper on her face, cooling her heated cheeks and clearing her mind. She is wary. There’s no reason to believe the woman has any sort of knowledge of those things if Hilda’s vouch for her reputation is to be believed, but some instinct has her believing it if only because of her own paranoia. It feels like a strange insight, a way for the world to remind her of her tendency to overthink things and take a cautious approach where spontaneity would be welcomed. Or it could be the ramblings of a madwoman, making too-good of a guess just to psych her out. An early death isn’t too far fetched an idea for a warrior of any sort, she supposes. As much as Amalia knows that she could die at any minute during her adventures, there has been a small comfort in Hydaelyn’s protection, a sense of cosmic belonging that has made her feel secure when she ought not to. But the woman’s words keep echoing in her head. _You want love, but you’re scared of it too. You’re going to die young_.

She is zoned out, staring at some scaffolding when Hilda swarms her vision. Her mouth is downturned and her brows are furrowed. “You didn’t let that hag get to you, did you? She’s just talkin’ nonsense.”

“I—“ Amalia stutters. “She just surprised me, is all.”

Hilda looks unconvinced, but a little more concerned than Amalia would’ve guessed. “Don’t pay her any mind. A few years back she used to sell snake oil potions ten gil a pop. She’s a hack,” Hilda squeezes her arm a little. “Has no right sayin’ creepy shit like that to someone like you.”

“You think she recognized me?”

Rolling her eyes, Hilda grins. “‘Course I do. Even if she never saw you in her life, they sing songs deep in the Brume too.” Hilda plucks the tail of her braid and wiggles it in the air. “They sing about your hair and your eyes and your lance, stabbin’ dragons, saving the world, all that.”

Amalia has never heard a song about her, and she surely doesn’t want to start hearing them now. Hilda’s grin turns decidedly naughty. “Late at night, they sing about other things, too. Lots of people are _very_ interested in what goes on between your legs.”

“Ugh,” Amalia groans.

“Can’t say I don’t wonder either,” Hilda teases, tickling the tip of Amalia’s nose with her own braid. “I imagine everyone’s barkin’ up your tree. Gotta let loose sometimes, right?”

She flinches away, her nose itching. “Hardly.”

“Shame,” Hilda coos. She loops her arm through Amalia’s and tugs her back onto the patrol path. Amalia expects Hilda to say more, but the other woman is quiet as they walk. Hilda’s patrol takes them back up towards the aetheryte plaza, and as usual Amalia’s gaze is drawn to the soft, glittering blue of the crystal.

“Question.” Hilda’s voice is softer than usual, and she sounds hesitant too. That sets Amalia on edge; if there is one thing that is constant about Hilda, it is her certainty in all things. “That Fortemps lordling. You, uh, loved him?”

As with every mention of Haurchefant, Amalia feels a twist in her gut. “Haurchefant? Not like that, no.”

“But he loved you.”

“...Maybe,” Amalia concedes. It’s something she hates to consider herself. She doesn’t want the answer. “He was so kind to everyone, it was hard to tell. No way of knowing now.”

Hilda thinks for a minute. “Probably a kindness, then.”

Amalia says nothing.

A few children run past, chasing each other and laughing with glee in the midday sun. Amalia lets Hilda tug her towards their next destination, weariness creeping across her mind. Her fingers itch for her lance; perhaps she’ll give another beating to the worn training dummy in the Fortemps lawn. Lately, she has been at her worst when there is too much time to think, and there are many things she’s avoided figuring out all together. She contemplates telling Thancred about her restlessness— surely he would take it kinder than if she disappeared into the night like she is wont to do.

At the thought of Thancred, she finds herself right back at square one: uncomfortable with his accusations towards the Lord Commander. There is a part of her that thinks Thancred surely would not lie to her, and if anyone she knows is familiar with affection, it’s him. She has interacted with Aymeric professionally for so many months now she’s lost track, and she has only just recently begun separating Aymeric the man from Aymeric the Lord Commander. She admires him, respects him, but not once has she ever thought to consider anything more than friendship with him. With _anyone_ , really, for the longest time. 

Except for Haurchefant. She did not love him but she thought she could, maybe one day, when the weight of the Mothercrystal didn’t strain her shoulders every waking moment. So much for that.

She cannot remember the last time she had a relationship. In her teens probably, right when she began to find her place in the world. Since she picked up a lance and started learning, she has not had the capacity for more than casual sex in years. Even now she does not relish the thought of starting one; there is too much to risk, both for herself and her partner, with everything going on in the world.

The woman had said she wanted love, but Amalia is not so sure. It sounds wonderful, of course, but she’s afraid it would add more pain to her plate than she would be able to deal with. She knows there is joy there too, but she is under no illusions that her life will return to normal after Ishgard is saved, and she’s afraid that won’t happen for many, many years. If the woman is to be believed, she would die before she had the chance.

Amalia wouldn’t wish that on anyone— the pain of losing a loved one. The Scions’ deaths had hurt her so deeply, Thancred’s worst of all. Minfilia fills her with nothing but regret. Haurchefant is an even deeper ache in her heart, and will be forever if she’s honest with herself, and she is so, so afraid of adding more.

A thought crosses her mind. “Hilda,” she interrupts their long, companionable silence. The other woman hums in response. “Do you ever see yourself settling down?”

Hilda shoots her a wide-eyed stare. “Are you kidding? Do I seem like the type?”

Amalia shrugs. “You never know.”

Hilda considers her words. “Dunno. I’ve never thought that far.” A few kids shout as they play across the plaza. “ _Really_ don’t think I’d be good with kids, though.”

That forces a laugh out of Amalia. “I bet you could be.”

“Yuck,” Hilda shivers. “I’d rather not. Why?”

“Just thinking,” Amalia mutters.

Hilda shoots her an unimpressed look. “I think she _did_ get to you. Well, you’re pretty enough. Good heart, good brains. What’s stopping you?”

“Stopping me?” Amalia repeats, blinking in confusion at the other woman. Hilda dismissively rolls her eyes. “From what?”

“Love. Romance. Wettin’ your whistle, whatever you wanna call it. Like I said, I’m sure there’s a thousand, thousand people that would… _pay tribute_ , if you know what I mean.” Hilda gives her raunchiest grin.

“Why do you have to say it like _that_ ,” Amalia moans. “You’re so weird.”

“And _you’re_ avoiding the question again.” Accusatory, Hilda pokes her in the side. “Dunno what the big deal is.”

Amalia huffs. “I don’t know, I mean…” She tries to find the words for what she’s poured over in her head. “Just seems like too big a risk at the worst time.”

Hilda scoffs. “Sounds cowardly to me.” At Amalia’s affronted look, she chortles loudly and jostles their arms where they loop together. “Aw, come on. What’s good in life that you got without _tryin’_ for it? That’s lesson number one. Thought you would know that, of all people.”

Grumbling, Amalia pulls her arm out of Hilda’s. “I can’t believe I’m getting a lecture from _you_.”

“Yeah well,” Hilda snickers. “You’ve got bad taste in friends.”

Amalia can’t resist a smile. Hilda’s given her a way out, but there’s still a niggling urge inside her, wanting to get to the bottom of how she feels once and for all. Hilda and her have never quite done _emotions_ before, their friendship mostly revolving around drinking and shooting heretics in the streets, but Amalia would rather gut herself than confide in Thancred right now. “Maybe I don’t want someone to _pay tribute_. I just… want someone to like _me_. You know. Not...” She waves her hand around in the air. “All that other stuff.”

The playfulness evaporates, and Hilda gives her a sympathetic look. “I’m no good at this stuff,” she mumbles, but then sighs and looks her straight on. “You’re a wonderful sort and all that, but you’re never going to be able to leave this Warrior business behind. Someone may only see you for that, but surely they could see past it after a while? I feel like I can,” she gestures at the two of them. “No offense, but this isn’t very big and scary Warrior of Light of you after all.”

After a long moment, Amalia says, “I guess so.” She understands what Hilda is saying and does agree that Hilda is more privy to her true personality than most in this city. “Makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” Hilda nods. “I always make sense.” Hilda then narrows her eyes at her and peers close. “Are you askin’ all this for a specific reason? Someone sendin’ you love notes, marriage proposals?”

“No,” Amalia says, unconvinced by her own tone.

“Liar,” Hilda singsongs. She tightens her ponytail and veers right, towards the Forgotten Knight. “That’s okay. I’ll just ply you with wine, you’ll start talkin’ soon enough.” 

“So early?” Amalia points at the sun high in the sky.

Hilda sneers. “What, you got somethin’ else to do? Come on, I need to bribe someone to take that hag her food. She’ll really come scream outside my window if I don’t, trust me.”

Dutifully, Amalia follows.


End file.
